Imago
by jumptheshark
Summary: What is your heart's desire? What would you be prepared to do to get it? This is a completely new twist on how the Cullen family came together.


Characters owned by Stephenie Meyer

**IMAGO**

- The End -

The derelict house sat brooding amongst the dark trees. Jagged upright timbers stabbed at the sky, and panes of blackened glass still in their frames glistened with reflections from the late afternoon sun. Rumor had it the will of its owners had stipulated that it stand unoccupied in the event of their deaths, stating that heirs would arrive to claim it. It was an odd clause to place in a will, but they couldn't have known it would be ravaged by fire, a fire that they themselves would perish in.

They must have hoped it would remain a monument to grandeur as it awaited its unknown new occupants, Marie thought as she sketched it. She often came here with her pad and pencils at different times of the day to draw the house that had been built as a folly.

There wasn't much left of it to show what it had looked like, but in the town library were pictures from two generations ago, and it had been magnificent then - a combination of architectural styles conceived by a madman. It seemed as though he had taken several sets of plans and torn them up, then sellotaped the pieces back together out of order.

Around the house were danger signs which had somehow escaped graffiti, and there were barricades like the ones road builders used to steer cars to safety away from potholes or landslides, but these had fallen down long ago. Marie had often wondered why there were no indications drunken louts had gone in there to host after-midnight parties - there were never any beer bottles, or cigarette stubs, just the awful charring of the burnt house itself.

She had never been inside. It seemed a violation to cross those barricades, flat though they were, and the house protected itself with its own sense of hazard mingled with tragedy.

This afternoon, though, the sky bore as much foreboding as the house, and without even the alarm of lightning to herald an oncoming storm the heavens opened and rain began to pour.

"Damn!" Marie hissed, frantically gathering together her drawing materials, and stuffing them in her satchel, then hauling her bike along awkwardly and cursing its unsuitability to get her home in this weather. There had been no forecast of rain. Only two options for shelter presented themselves - under the trees, or in the sad and creepy house.

Since an unfortunate early childhood encounter with a crow, she had been mildly ornithophobic. Glancing from the dense woods with their possible thousands of birds, to the derelict building which could also be a nesting site for God knows what-and-how-many, she chose the latter.

It was very cool inside, cooler than the outside air, and slightly damp. Despite the faintness of the light coming in she could see quite well, and decided to look around, although she knew it would be dangerous to attempt the staircase. Her exploration would have to be confined to the ground floor.

There was debris everywhere, as obviously no-one had ever cleaned up after the dreadful fire. Expecting to feel apprehensive but discovering that her curiosity outweighed her fear, Marie moved carefully from room to room seeing nothing but the ruined remnants of furniture and walls and curtains. Though local legend claimed that the owners had never been seen again, no human remains had ever been found and she found herself hoping that the occupants had somehow gotten out, or perhaps hadn't even been home when it happened.

Here, obviously, was the living room, through this way a large kitchen with a laundry attached, and next to that a bathroom. Along a hall was a room with what was left of a desk, so it must have been an office, then another room, this one with a double bed in it. Marie was glad she couldn't go upstairs - seeing the bed seemed more disturbing than anything else she'd seen. She couldn't have borne it if there were single beds and children's things - maybe a doll's house or rocking chair, or what was left of a train set.

Coming back along the hall she stepped through a doorway on the other side and found a room lined with shelves still containing books. There were leather couches here, too, so the fire mustn't have destroyed this part of the house; there had only been smoke damage. Her eye was caught by a photo frame lying face down on a low table, and before she even thought about it, she picked it up.

A shard of broken glass on the edge of the frame pricked her fingertip as she did so, and she quickly brought her hand to her mouth, but not before a few drops of blood had fallen to the floor. Sucking on her finger, and frowning at the tiny pain she looked at the photo.

Two faces gazed at one another adoringly - a couple. The man was tall and blonde and very handsome and had an arm around the woman, who was beautiful. She held a bouquet of flowers in one hand, and extended the other to the photographer, with her fingers spread palm down. She was showing off a wedding ring.

Marie felt tears prick her eyes - they were so happy, their bodies slightly turned in towards one another, while gazing out of the frame at the viewer, at _her_. Were they the house's owners? Marie blinked away her tears, glad that they had had this special day, that they had known such love, and then stared in astonishment. When she picked the picture up they'd been looking at each other, she was certain. She _thought_ she was certain. Now they both smiled at her.

"_Marieee_..." a voice hissed suddenly from nowhere and she spun wildly, dropping the picture. It made no sound hitting the floor.

"_Marieee_..."

"Wh-who's there?" she stammered, terrified.

"_Marieee_."

It was whispery and echoing and dry, and it didn't sound human.

Marie screamed and fled, grabbing her bike, uncaring of the rain, heart nearly thumping out of her chest and she hit the road, riding for her life.

By the time she was home, still trembling and now soaking wet, she was trying to convince herself that she had imagined what had happened back at the house. Characters in photographs can't move, and voices like the rustling of dead leaves can't whisper the names of people they couldn't know. She put her bike away and went to unsling her satchel from her back, and that's when she realized she didn't have it.

"Oh crap," she breathed. "Oh_ crap_!"

Not only did it contain a couple of hundred bucks worth of pencils, it held her two sketchpads - one for school, and one for the private drawings she never showed anybody. Two years of work was in those books, and she _had_ to get them back. For one thing, without them she'd fail art, and it was her favorite subject. There was no way she could come up with a sufficient body of work in what was left of the year. For another thing, if anyone found them, they would know who they belonged to. She initialed her work, but it wasn't so much the initials that gave her away - the second pad was full of self-portraits. They showed the Marie that she quietly and desperately wished she was, not the Marie of actuality. They showed her in fantastical, faraway settings, relaxed, confident, comfortable, and most of all, beautiful. They showed her beautiful.

She _had_ to get them back.

As she cycled along the road to the woods a couple of days later, she recited reassurances to herself.

"_There is no such thing as a haunted house. The wind can play tricks with your hearing. No such thing as a haunted house. Wind can play tricks with your hearing_."

She thought she felt strong, but once she was there, she didn't feel strong at all. Quite the opposite. Dismounting, she had to force herself to proceed, she had to consciously will her legs to take her past the Danger! signs, and the Keep Out! signs, and the Warning! signs. She should have obeyed them last time.

It was only four in the afternoon, and would still be light for hours, which was all that lent her bravery.

_No such thing as a haunted house_.

What awaited her?

_Wind can play tricks with your hearing_.

The air was still, as she passed though it without so much as a murmur.

Inside, she went straight to what she had been mentally calling the library, where she thought she'd left the satchel although she didn't remember having put it down. It was nowhere to be seen, and the picture was not only on the table, it was now standing. Although getting closer to it made her feel sick, she approached to see once more the smiling faces of the two happy and gorgeous people, the man proud and intelligent, and professional looking, perhaps something like a doctor, and the woman glamorous and yet not cold or aloof, but somehow approachable and warm.

"Ah, Marie...you have returned," a voice said, and she froze.

It wasn't the dessicated nightmarish rasp, but she thought it was the same voice, now deeper and human sounding, and male.

She turned slowly, filled with an unnameable dread and saw before her a man. He was the man from the portrait, but he looked ill. His cheeks were hollow, his skin a strange jaundiced color, and his eyes hooded. Inexplicably he didn't look any older than in the photo, although he certainly should have, but there was an air of decrepitude about him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen, and you are a guest in my home."

He gestured around himself. "I am sorry you are not seeing it at its finest, and I am unable to offer you any refreshments, but please, be sure you are most welcome here."

"Your home? But no-one has lived here for decades," Marie said, scared of him even though he looked so frail.

"I said it was my home. I didn't say I _lived_ here," he answered cryptically.

"I'm trespassing. I'm very sorry. I was here a few days ago, and I know I shouldn't have been but I was sheltering from the rain. I left something here by mistake and I've come to get it back," Marie blurted out.

"Yes, you left something. You may most certainly have it back, but I need to ask a favor of you in return," he answered smoothly, and though his voice was pleasant in tone, he sounded ominous.

"A favor?" Marie echoed, hating the tremble in her voice and wanting to sound assertive. She wanted this wreck of a man to think she was unafraid! If she just knew where her bag was, she could take it and run, and he wouldn't have the strength to stop her. Her eyes darted about even as the two of them stood there, but she couldn't see what she was looking for.

"Yes, a very small favor. It will cost you nothing, but it will mean everything to me."

"Ah, well yes, of course. What can I do?" Marie asked carefully, unable to imagine what he could possibly want from her.

"Perhaps you should sit," he suggested. "The parlor room was the least damaged in the great fire, and there is serviceable furniture there. Please follow me."

He led and Marie followed, wondering at his outdated clothes, the whispy pale hair at his collar, the stoop of his shoulders and the awkward shuffling of his gait. In a room she hadn't seen before he indicated a chair and she sat perched on the edge like a bird, ready for flight, hands stiff on either side of her legs should she need to propel herself upwards and away.

"My dear Marie," he began. "My wife and I have been - asleep. We have lain here in this house for decades, and we have waited for you. You left two things behind when you visited us recently, one was your folder of art materials and drawings which I will return to you soon, and the other was a valuable, valuable gift. You could not possibly know how precious it was, how I cherished and treasured it, and the magnitude of the thankfulness I feel towards you because of it, but it was not enough and I must now ask you for more."

Marie stared, feeling her skin crawl as though the softness of spiders were on the back of her neck and creeping up her arms. There was a tingling in her spine, threatening to gather at the base of her skull and push through there, overtaking her brain with electricity. Had he just said he had been asleep for _decades_?

"I don't know what you are talking about," she whispered, daring to look at his eyes which appeared to have no iris, only pupil and were pitch black.

"You gave me a gift from your heart, Marie. I have slumbered undisturbed here with my wife for years, and we have been waiting. When you cut yourself and let fall a few drops of your wondrous, life-affirming blood, it was enough to stir me, and raise me and here am I now before you. My beloved wife was farther from the surface than I, she is not as strong, and she still lies dormant. She is everything to me - I need her like you need the air, without her I am nothing - no more than a wraith, and a lost wraith at that. Without her at my side despair is my master. Therefore I beg of you Marie, give me a few more drops of your blood to bring my wife to me."

"You're deranged," Marie said, glued to the chair though she wanted to be far away.

"No," he shook his head. "One or two drops - is that so much to ask? Then you shall have your satchel, and Marie, I will give you a gift besides. What is your secret desire?"

Marie tucked her head in to her chest, her hair falling forward over her cheeks.

"I have no secret desire," she murmured.

"Your drawings tell me otherwise," he responded. "All I ask is a few drops of blood in exchange for your sketches, and you will receive a gift. I admit, I get by far the better part of the deal - but may I have your answer?"

"Will I be free to go?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Of course, although you may return to visit whenever you like. Think of our home as yours, my dear."

Resisting the urge to grimace, Marie considered for only a moment. A little blood would cost her nothing, she would get back her sketchblocks and pencils, and she would leave and never look back.

"All right," she said, holding her hand out. Carlisle Cullen produced a tiny knife and a tiny bowl, and in a flash had pricked her fingertip, releasing a jewel of red.

"Thank you Marie," he sighed, producing her leather satchel, which he held out to her.

Marie snatched it and ran.

For the next little while, she forgot about what had transpired. Pushing it to a recess of her mind that forbade retrieval she went about school life and home life. It wasn't until three days later that she was pulled up short, noticing in her mirror that something had happened. Since she was thirteen she had been using medicated cream on her face to treat a skin condition, but on this particular morning she saw with surprise that the angry dry red of her cheeks had faded. Her skin was softer, and even appeared translucent - a delicate ivory with a peach blush. It was the sort of complexion she had always dreamed of having, and she gazed in awe. The doctor's expensive ointment was finally working.

An uncomfortable, and unbelievable idea was trying to form, but she resisted it. Her skin improved daily, and she was able to throw the tube of cream away. She couldn't as easily throw the idea away though. Carlisle Cullen had asked what her secret desire was, and her secret desire was so deep and dark that she couldn't tell him because she was ashamed of it as it seemed so shallow. But he had seen her sketchbook, and her desire was illustrated clearly enough in there. She was plain, plain, plain. Unremarkable, nondescript. She had never found acceptance of her appearance and convinced herself she would never be loved. The pain of her situation made her socially awkward, and she had few friends. She wouldn't speak up in class because she didn't want to be looked at. Her impossible dream was that one day she would wake up, and simply be beautiful. How stupid! She was plain, and stupid with it. Some days she hated herself so bitterly she didn't know how she could get out of bed.

But Carlisle Cullen had said he'd give her a gift, and now her skin was clear, although dermatologists had told her she would be affected by rosacea all her life. Marie decided she had to go back to Carlisle and ask him what had happened.

Another idea was forming, too. Perhaps all wasn't well with Carlisle's wife? Perhaps she would need another drop of blood? Marie could spare a drop. If she volunteered it - might there be any chance she could be offered another gift?

"Ah, my dearest Marie," Carlisle's voice greeted her in pleasure as she stepped over the threshold into the dim interior of the house. "What a delight to see you."

"I, ah, was wondering how you are," Marie said. Looking around, she was amazed, as though from the outside the house still appeared dilapidated, the interior was tidied.

"Things have improved a little round here, have they not? All it needed was a woman's touch. Please come and meet Esme, she has very much looked forward to meeting you," he smiled, taking Marie's hand. His touch was dry and lifeless and she wanted to snatch herself away, but she allowed him to lead her through to the kitchen.

"Marie, my dear, I want to thank you with every fibre of my being for what you have done," a voice said, and there was the woman from the photograph. Her face showed the same wan appearance as her husband's, and the same gauntness. There was dullness and flatness in once glorious hair, and a lack of spark in her dark eyes.

"Hello," Marie said, and Esme hugged her. The hug was almost repellant in its coldness and Marie stiffened, but she forced herself to bring her arms up to Esme's waist, and was shocked to feel how insubstantial she was.

"Once again, I am unable to offer coffee or tea, as we do not have such things. How have you been, my dear? You look well," Carlisle said, and Marie mumbled platitudes.

"And your schoolwork? What do you enjoy at school?" Esme asked and Marie admitted that while her favorite subjects were art and literature, she also did well in science and maths. She wasn't about to confide she was able to dedicate a lot of time to study due to not being included in any of the social groups on campus.

"I do poorly in sport, and not too well in music or drama, but academically I'm a bit of an all-rounder," she concluded.

Her hosts exchanged glances.

"Marie," Carlisle began. "We are extremely happy that you have come to see us, and to check on our well-being. It is most thoughtful of you. However, as you may be able to see, neither of us are in full health. We have very particular and rather unusual dietary requirements, Marie. We are unable to take nutrients from food in the normal manner, and our bodies can only take sustenance in the form of food that has already been digested and has been passed into the bloodstream. It's a little like the way babies receive nutrition before they are born as it comes to them through the umbilical cord from the placenta. We need blood, Marie, and we have no way of getting it. I hate to ask you this again, but would you consent - ?"

"Carlisle, I would like to help," Marie interrupted. "I can see that neither of you look quite well. I can spare a little - after all, my body makes plenty of the stuff, doesn't it? I don't like to see that the two of you are suffering."

This wasn't a lie, as Marie could clearly see that they were in poor health. If they needed food, she would have brought them a bagful from the grocery store. Was it really so different to surrender a little blood?

"Again, thank you. And Marie, your generosity will not go unrewarded," Carlisle said.

This time, he slashed her palm with the sharp knife and held her wrist tight when she would have pulled back. She watched with nauseous fascination as her bright blood spilled and he gathered it, then to her alarm he placed a swift kiss on her hand. Under her gaze, the cut closed itself and disappeared.

"Don't hesitate to call on us, any time you like. You will always be welcome here," Esme said warmly, and Marie made her farewells. Her hand wasn't hurting as she clenched her bike's handlebars. She refused to think about what she'd done.

The next morning, she awoke to find that something was tickling her shoulders and neck, and even the top of one breast. Frowning, she sat up, and looked down at herself. Chestnut hair tumbled in a wave as she moved her head. She shot out of bed and went to the mirror.

Yesterday, and all her yesterdays, her hair had been straight, fine, and lank. No matter what volumizing products she threw her money away on, nothing made a difference. Today, her hair was rich with luxuriance, flowing in sweet, wavy disarray far enough for the tips of the longest strands to lick at her nipples.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing.

"Am I really selling my blood for beauty?" she thought.

She was still denying it as she returned to the house. Carslise and Esme looked plumper, and stronger and more fleshed out, somehow.

"You are a surrogate daugther to us, do you know that?" Esme asked her. "Our lovely, lovely Marie."

And Marie who had thought herself so unworthy of the regard of others knew that here she was appreciated and cared for and enveloped and wanted, and she gave again what she was able to give. She felt gratitude for their gratitude, and fondness for their fondness, and her loneliness was assuaged by their enjoyment of her company.

And she was emerging from the shadows at school. Whether it was because of the outward changes she was undergoing or the inward ones she didn't know, but she was able to speak to other students and no longer felt illuminated by her own blushing, or thought that she stammered on loudspeaker. Her bearing had altered as her body altered - when her waist became more indented and her hips flared and her breasts rounded themselves she developed a swing in her walk. Her shoulders pushed themselves down and back, lengthening her slender neck and giving her grace. As her brows straightened and darkened and her lashes thickened and curved and her lips became fuller she could smile more alluringly than the Mona Lisa.

Every time she went to Carlisle and Esme she felt more a part of them, and more removed from the other life she had only half-inhabited.

"Ah, Marie - you are my beloved girl, my darling. I love you so much," Esme told her, and these days Esme was movie-star gorgeous, willowy yet shaped like an hourglass, with cascading hair and glowing eyes. Carlisle was tall and fine-boned, handsome and assured. They were a very impressive couple.

"We have something more to ask of you, Marie, though you have already given us so much," he said one day, an arm around his glamorous wife. They seemed so in love, and were always touching.

"We can't keep taking blood from you Marie, but we need more to be fully restored. Esme always wanted a big family and we weren't able to have children. Could you bring some of your friends to us? We can transform them, we can give them their heart's desire, and they can become like us the way you are becoming like us. Esme and I will be rejuvenated and we can all go away and live somewhere else and have a new life together."

"I wanted three girls and three boys. You are our first. Can you help us find the others?" Esme asked softly.

"But what about their families? You can't just abduct a bunch of teenagers," Marie pointed out.

"You know by now we can make things happen. They will not remember their families once they are part of ours, and their parents and siblings will forget about them in a painless way. Your own parents will not remember you. No-one will be hurt Marie, and Esme and I will get our greatest wish. Will you do this for us?" Carlisle asked her, and such was her love for him, for both of them, that she agreed without demur. She was faintly sorry for the loss of her biological parents, but thought of Carlisle and Esme as her family now.

Back at school, she made her choices.

"Together forever," was what her adoptive parents had said, and she was thorough. If you were able to choose your family rather than have them haphazardly thrown at you by nature, what would be your criteria?

They weren't exactly friends, as Marie didn't have friends, but she put together an eclectic group based on her own system of merit, and cultivated them. She had a presence these days that nobody understood, and teenagers gathered around merely to bask in her aura, but she was selective about who she spent time with.

One lunchtime, weeks after Esme and Carlisle's request she assembled the crew who had nothing whatsoever to do with one another and sat them around a table.

"What is your heart's desire?" she asked.

It was known that Marie was mysterious. People were drawn in by that very mystery, by her quiet yet startling beauty, her cool assurance, the feeling that she knew something no-one else did. Her five companions saw nothing odd about her question, and sat contemplating.

"I'd really love to be able to see the future," Alice Brandon replied at last. "I hate unsureness. I suffer anxiety. We all rattle around on the surface of this world, unknowing. I want to know what's going to happen, so I can be prepared."

"I feel alone and isolated, and cut off from everybody else," Jasper Whitlock admitted. "We're all so alone in our emotions - I'd like to be able to know that other people feel the same things I do - when they're down, I'm down - when I'm happy, they're happy. I want to be on the grid, and be connected."

"I'd like to be able to say whatever I feel. I've never had the nerve. Everyone looks at me, and they dismiss me like I'm some kind of ornament - I hate it. I want to stand up and tell the world to get fucked. I want the freedom to be outwardly what I am inwardly - someone who won't take any shit from anybody," Rosalie Hale said.

Emmett McCarthy pushed his chair back. "I want to be bigger," he stated. "I want to be strong. I never wanted to be the scared guy. I want to be big enough and strong enough to kill a bear."

Marie had picked from among the most attractive students in the school. If she was going to spend eternity with them, they had better be people she could appreciate looking at. She was shocked at their insecurities. She had thought beauty would be the answer to everything, and was finding so far that for her it was. Maybe she appreciated it because she'd paid for it.

The last person to speak was Edward Masen, who regarded her with a measuring gaze. He was considered intense and brilliant. Turning away from her at last, his eyes bored into everyone else's.

"I look around at the sea of faces in this institution we spend so much of our time in, and people appear so inane," he said slowly. "So vacuous, as though they couldn't begin to formulate a thought. It's just as bad outside the hallowed halls, on the streets and parks - all I hear is nothing. I can't bear to think that all of humanity is vapid. I would like to hear thoughts, I would like to know the complexity and perfection of minds."

He looked particularly intently at Marie, who gazed smoothly back, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts. They were healthy enough, these five, to give up a quart or so of blood each. In return she could give them eternity, as well as fulfilling their wishes.

"Does anybody want to go to a seance in a haunted house?" she asked.

All through the week she felt like a kidnapper. They had nodded to her in agreement, and she knew she had charisma they couldn't comprehend, and they couldn't have refused. She was taking them from their parents and their siblings and stealing them. Esme and Carlisle would drink from them, and make them what they wanted to be, and give them always and each other. Was it a fair trade?

She re-read The Portrait of Dorian Grey, knowing that like him, she had sold her soul for beauty. But he was depraved, she was not. He lived for pleasure and hedonism and used others, she didn't. She threw the book in a fire, and turned to the mirror.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

"The Cullen family."

On Saturday she and the other students met at the house.

"This is seriously spooky," Alice murmured.

"Seances are supposed to be spooky," Marie replied.

She only had to get them inside, and Esme and Carlisle would do the rest. And they did, appearing amongst the ruins with their alabaster skin, and their hungry eyes, and their glinting blades.

"Marie, what's going on?" Edward asked her in alarm, but Esme and Carlisle were too fast, and too strong, and anyway, the house held them all.

"Put out your hand, Edward, and you will get what you want," Marie urged. "It does hurt, but only for an instant, trust me. Do you trust me?"

The knives glittered, and blood was spilled, and Marie's sense of smell was far better than it used to be. The blood smelled like ambrosia and gushed into the little silver bowls, and Carlisle and Esme tipped the bowls and drank until the red spilled on their cheeks, and they kissed and licked each other, and they kissed and healed the hands of their five adopted children.

"Now you must drink from us," Carlisle announced, and he and Esme offered their own palms for cutting, and the six young people, by now confused and dizzy, were persuaded to drink. All eight collapsed in a heap together on the floor.

Hours later, the new family began to stir from the aftermath that had followed their frenzy.

"We are all together now," Esme smiled, shining with the depth of her love.

"We're all going to move away somewhere, aren't we? Somewhere green and dark," Alice said wonderingly.

"Jesus, you're a fucking oaf. Get the hell off me, you weigh a ton," Rosalie snarled to Emmett.

"Baby, you _wish_ I was on you," Emmett grinned.

"Get a room, you two. I know you want to," Jasper told them.

The dark and inscrutable Edward turned to Marie.

"You said I would get what I want," he stated quietly. "How is it that I can hear every mind here but yours?"

"Perhaps there's something else from me that you want," she whispered back.

"Perhaps there is. Am I going to get it?" he asked.

"It's probably time we all got acquainted," Carlisle announced. "I am Carlisle, and this is my wife Esme."

Introductions were made all round, but as Marie went to speak, Esme interrupted.

"My love, my daughter, my child, we have all undergone great changes, and you have become what you were meant to be. So lovely, you're like a fairy tale - you're the duckling that became a beautiful swan. I wish to rename you. The only thing I can think of that's fitting is Bella - for your beauty, and of course Swan, for your transformation. Bella Swan."

Bella Swan, how apt.

- The Beginning -

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End file.
